At five-thirty in the morning, my blissful snooze in the Sheraton was interrupted by Jo calling across from the other side of the room for me to get out of bed. The electronic alarm also went off. Despite this cacophony of noise, Rowan remained stubbornly in his bed for another five minutes. After rolling out of our beds and clearing our eyes, we stumbled out of the door, lugging our equipment through the corridors to the downstairs restaurant.

Breakfast itself was rather pleasant, as is to be expected in such a hotel- something I am definitely not used to. Omelettes, freshly squeezed juices, doughnuts, danishes and a massive assortment of other luxuries were laid out on a self-service bar. It is hard to imagine such excesses if you had lived your life outside the hotel grounds with the true locals of Timika. In fact, staying at the Sheraton with its swimming pool, lush tropical gardens and expensive rooms means that you can forget where you are. Looking out of the restaurant and seeing the barbed wire fence at the edge of the compound is a quick reminder.

            Breakfast was quickly finished as the greys and blues of the dawning of a warm, rainy day in the tropics began to materialise. Rowan packed a couple of boiled eggs to eat later while I walked to the entrance. Right on cue, Kal’s driver Jeffery was waiting. Jeffery is a short Indonesian man that rarely lacked a smile somewhere under his thin moustache. Had I spoken better Bahasa Indonesia at the time, I may have got along quite well with him. The mode of transportation was a small black van that might seat six or so passengers at a time. Trinkets of all kinds decorated the interior while the bonnet had a dinner-plate sized “Lucky Strike” cigarette brand sticker proudly affixed to it. His young son sat in the front passenger seat. After loading our fishing rods, camera equipment and assorted baggage into the van we were on our way. Jo handed Jeffery some fluffy suction-cup style koala souvenirs as a present as we departed, and wished us well. We left the Sheraton compound, waved at the security guards and headed for nearby Timika. Compared to our living standards in Australia, Timika was a real eye-opener – a proper frontier town. It was only established as a town in the early 1970s, but already looked old and tired. Many people lived in third-world conditions. Fibro houses were run-down, patched up with plastic and scrap metal. Many of the houses sat among overgrown weeds in semi-permanent dark coloured water left by the rains. The street itself was in a state of disrepair while rubbish and mangy dogs occupied the roadsides. Small children in grubby clothes searched through rubbish heaps while men, mostly Indonesians dressed in yellow raincoats sped around on motorbikes. For days we wondered about curious small stalls that sold old water bottles filled with yellow, urine-like liquid. They were scattered everywhere, you would not go more than a hundred metres in many areas without seeing one. Later, Kal informed us that they were selling fuel, as many people don’t want to drive all the way to the service station. Small kiosks and other shops were lining the streets, already open for business. Considering the conditions, it seemed odd that almost every second shop had massive red posters in place advertising the sale of mobile phone SIM cards.

            We eventually left Timika and found ourselves beetling along, in no hurry to Iwaka Village. The paved road gave way to dirt shortly after. We drove over countless muddy creeks carrying their cargo of rainwater and rubbish out to sea. Every time we encountered another life form on- or near the road whether human or animal, Jeffery would sound the horn. We passed children walking to school and Papuan women bent forward carrying cargoes of goods to market in string Noken bags- the strap/handle across the forehead and walking stick in hand. We passed through fern and orchid-dominated swampland and drove through rainforest, weaving our way around dangerously deep potholes and rills caused by the rain. The road soon met a “T” intersection.

 Right ahead of us was a sad sight. Town rubbish that had not been thrown in the creeks had been dumped in large piles; a bulldozer periodically cleared a path through it. The rubbish had piled quite high, and was now spreading sideways into the lowland rainforest. We turned left and noticed the rainforest was rather flooded in many spots. Palm trees began to dominate in a few places, their massive, peculiar fronds pointed almost vertically. Many did not seem to have trunks. Jeffery addressed us, pointing at the palms and said one of the few words spoken to us so far, simply saying: “Sago.” Sago, it turns out is apparently a staple of the Kamoro people of the southern West Papuan lowlands. Families process large amounts of the palm to be made into a variety of products for consumption.

            Some movement caught my eye. From the left side of the road a dark bird with an outrageously long black tail and rounded wings flew across the road and into a tree on the right. The only bird I imagined it to be from a quick glimpse was a species of Astrapia- a Bird of Paradise whose long tail feathers are prized by hunters all over New Guinea. Jeffery stopped as he knew I wanted to photograph such things. As I quietly opened the door and stepped out, the bird vanished even though we did not see it leave. Rowan and I searched for it, but there was no further sign of it.

            We piled back into the black van and continued down the dirt road. After an hour and a half or so, we saw a clearing ahead. There were two rows of grey fibro houses, one on each side of the road, about forty metres to the side. They were all identical, except for those whose owners had decorated with paintings of animals. Each house was marginally larger than an average Australian living room. Between the houses and the road were ditches filled with the wavy edged, heart-shaped, downward pointing leaves of the taro plant, another food source that yields potato-like tubers under the ground. Many of the houses had satellite dishes- possibly picked up from the local dump. I doubt many of them even had access to electricity; there certainly was no mains power. This was Iwaka Village.

            As we drove further into the village, Jeffery slowed down and swerved to the left. Rowan and I strained from the back seat to see what the commotion was. A frail old man with a catapult in his back pocket began to yell at Jeffrey, who swerved back to the right. Jeffery mumbled something at the old man and continued. We saw what the cause of the disagreement was, a very sick, dying dog laying on the road; the old man obviously did not want it put out of its misery. When the people saw these strange white fellas in Kal’s car, we drew much attention. An old lady in colourful clothes, bearing few teeth in her mouth leaned in the window, stared at us for a moment and screamed to the general public several times at the top of her voice some words which neither of us could understand. Rowan and I nearly jumped out of our skins. Still in fright, we laughed at our introduction to Iwaka as the car turned right at the local church – also fibro and down a muddy side street. We stopped at the side of a turbid creek. A crowd was gathering to greet us. Children, men, women and a couple of blokes dressed like Jamaicans complete with colourful shirts and dreadlocks stood watching us.

Rowan expressed his opinion. “I really don’t like being the centre of attention here; I’m just not comfortable with it.”

            Without saying much, Jeffrey unloaded our equipment and handed it to a Papuan man with a rounded, friendly, yet stern face complete with a moustache. He wore shorts and a shirt consisting of bright red, green, blue and yellow. He greeted us, and we figured his name was Demianus, the man in charge of the expedition upriver. As our gear was carried down some planks sitting in mud to the water, some Papuans saw my camera and called me over to photograph something of interest. To my surprise it was a Papuan Hornbill Aceros plicatus, and only a baby. It was a pet and sat on a horizontal stick, eyes half closed in the drizzle. I took a few photographs and made my way into the now loaded canoe. As is the case with many of them around it, it was a dugout canoe made from a single tree trunk. The sides were built up further with planks to increase the freeboard. A rough frame covered with a tarpaulin had been built up over the top where we were to sit. Planks and plastic sheet were in place to give us something dry to sit on. The back of the canoe had been chopped off to allow for the installation of an outboard motor- complete with Catholic style stickers of Jesus with a staff and a lamb by his side, as well as matching Mary stickers. Our masses of equipment made us look stupid compared to the tiny provisions Demanius and the three other men had packed; to be fair the majority of it was camera equipment to record our journey.

            I stepped through the mud into the canoe, Rowan jumped in right after. I had the luggage to use as a backrest, so I was surprisingly comfortable. Demianus waved goodbye to the crowd on the riverbank as we motored out into the main river. The canoe was wobbly to us as first- I stressed at the thought of ending up in the water with the expensive equipment. Sure, it had insurance but all of that means nothing when you are out in the middle of West Papua at the start of a photographic expedition. We headed downriver at first. I tried to ask the men- who had said practically nothing to us so far- where we were going, as I was hoping to go upriver. Demianus indicated through sign language and very broken English that we were to go downriver, meet a junction then go upriver. As we travelled, a Great Cuckoo Dove landed in a tall tree on the other side of the river. Although too far away for a decent photograph, I could see the bird’s superb colours- the white head and neck, purple back and long greenish-looking tail through the 300mm lens. Soon enough we were travelling against the raging current up the river, dodging protruding logs, sometimes glancing off them. One of the men excitedly yelled “KUS KUS,” stabbing a finger in the direction of a large overhanging tree. Kus kus, pronounced locally as “cous/cous” is the generic name given to practically any possum species, and sometimes to tree kangaroos. Demianus, totally straight-faced spun the boat around to see if we could find the animal, but despite looking could not re-locate it. By now the drizzle had practically stopped, but the warm, damp and overcast conditions had not.

            Continuing up the river, we spotted many birds and other animals- always from a distance. In typical New Guinean fashion, all wildlife is deathly scared of humans- for good reason. Anything and everything remotely edible is caught and eaten. Most other animals are caught and kept as pets (or illegally exported to Java.) Adult Papuan Hornbills crossed the river, sometimes in pairs but mostly in small flocks well above the canopy. Demianus simply pointed at them and said “Tauntaun.” A truly enormous flying fox cruised overhead.

            As we travelled further inland the trees got taller. A pair of Eclectus parrots (Eclectus roratus) flew over, the bright red and blue female following the plain, predominantly green male. Red Cheeked Parrots were spotted every few minutes high in the sky, as were a large variety of Lorikeets. Chattering and buzzing only centimetres above the swirling muddy water were a range of Swiftlets, mainly the blue-satin coloured Glossy Swiftlet and possibly Uniform, their boomerang shaped wings carrying their aerodynamic bodies at seemingly impossible speeds through the air in search of insects. Banana plantations and temporary settlements dotted the riverbank.

Rowan enquired of me “Can you please tell these people that I really, really need to pee, your Indonesian is far better than mine.”

I attempted to tell the men, who laughed among themselves and agreed to stop for a leak, when they found a good spot. We passed a small banana plantation on the river bank with a large temporary hut. About fifty metres upstream a man and his wife sat in a canoe, pulling themselves along by grabbing handfuls of overhanging grass on the river’s edge. Demianus made conversation with the man, who did not appear to have a happy disposition. I mentally nicknamed him “Mr Sunshine.” Dogs, mostly sandy coloured Asian Dingo types, plus a black and white mottled breed clambered about the canoe, growling in our general direction. After the conversation was over, Demianus revved up our engine and we sped on upstream. About ten minutes later we came ashore on a sandbar. As one of the men held the canoe in place, a rather pale looking Rowan practically ran along the surface of the water to get to the bank. We all found relief on the bank. Once our bladders were empty and I had chased some wildlife in the form of insects around, Demianus, for the first time introduced his crew. He pointed towards a man, thin but obviously strong. His eyes were half closed and his face was well defined. He had so far never lacked a genuine smile – it seemed to be stuck on. On his head he wore a blue cap which was covered by a floppy camouflage hat. Moses was his name and he said very little. His smile broadened as he nodded. Next was Titus, the oldest member of the crew. Titus, like he others said very little. He was also skinny and possibly the most physically fit grandfather I have seen yet. He wore a blue singlet under his pink and purple teddy bear-patterned fleece shirt, topping the outfit off with blue shorts. His hair was clipped short and, like many Papuans we met had very little grey and no sign of balding. Normally relatively straight-faced he was perhaps the most friendly and outgoing crew member. Like the others, excluding Demianus he spoke absolutely no English. Finally, there was Nelson. Much broader across the shoulders, but no less fit, he had a moustache like Demianus, but did not seem so relaxed and easy-going. His eyes were always wide open and darting about, as if constantly on the lookout for something that may leap out of the bush to attack him. His favourite shirt was army camouflaged. Nelson seemed to be the best at finding animals- little wonder with his constant wide eyes and alert temperament.

            During the introductions, a few birds had made their presence known. One, possibly a species of Coucal made a series of deep booming notes on the other side of the river deep in the jungle. Close to it, I heard some raucous trilling screams. I identified it as a Rufous Bellied Kookaburra- a small colourful rainforest dwelling kingfisher, a relative of the more famous Australian Kookaburras. Another type of kingfisher, the Sacred Kingfisher- so familiar to many Australians zipped across the water, its turquoise back blending in with the trees on the other side. The low level clouds parted for the first time, and we got our first glimpse of the massive mountains further inland- some with ice at their summit. We were certainly looking forward to our journey in that direction later in the week.

            Climbing back into the canoe, I asked Demianus if there were big fish here. “Ikan besar…?” I asked, hoping he would understand, as I pointed at the river.

He replied by saying “ya, ikan besar ini,” with his hands spread far apart indicating the fish indeed are big in this river.

I asked if the water was clearer further up. He said it was, but not how far up and if we would go there.

“Now…” he began, “…we make… home… den, ahh… mancing ikan.” (Make a shelter and go fishing) He imitated fishing with a rod and line. He continued: “We…make home, fish later.” He pointed a finger back downstream, indicating that we were to make home or camp in that direction.

Sure enough, we stopped where a coffee coloured creek met the much larger, lighter coloured river right opposite the encampment belonging to Mr Sunshine. The men tied the canoe to the bank and set about business. Almost without a word, they fished around for axes and machetes in the bottom of the boat, sharpened them on a stone and hacked a clearing in the jungle, selecting large logs and putting them aside. Massive swallowtail butterflies, boldly marked black, white red and blue fluttered past. Ulysses swallowtails made their determined swift flight through the clearing, their enormous blue wings flashing like animated metallic foil. A peculiar tiger striped Clipper butterfly (Parthenos sp) would flutter; and then swerve around, gliding with its wings pointing down. I managed a few photos of this unusual but common species. The men simply said “Kopokopo” when I pointed it out. One of the men collected long, thin tree roots, while another gathered green sticks from deeper in the rainforest. In about ten minutes a structure took shape. Planks were removed from the floor of the boat and lined up to form a floor about a metre above the ground while a tarpaulin formed the roof, a beam placed along the ceiling made sure it sloped evenly each side so as not to gather water in case of rain. The tree roots were used as ropes to secure the construction. All up, the entire operation took all of twenty minutes. The men lay back for an hour or so. I pestered them to go fishing. Rowan and I extracted the fishing rods from their tube. Admittedly we had taken far too much- then again we didn’t know what lived up this river so we had gear suitable for anything from tiny Garfish right up to enormous Spot-Tailed Bass. As we set the rods up, the men gathered around, extremely curious as to what we had brought with us. Looking at the shiny reels and rods, they shook their heads in disbelief while making a “Tsk…tsk…tsk...” sound with their tongues.

 When the box of lures emerged from the bag, they giggled amongst themselves like school children. Of particular interest was a soft rubbery crayfish type lure. They marvelled at its realism. Demianus informed us that real versions of these are to be found in that very river. I grabbed a small Jitterbug style lure from the box and clipped it on the line. This lure has a blue body with a dark back and tiger stripes. At the front, it has an oval shaped bib, cup shaped and angled like an aircraft wing. I called for their attention and cast it onto the water. It landed with a plop, floating to the surface. I gave it a twitch and retrieved it, the bib causing it to wobble side to side as if alive. The Kamoro men looked at it wide-eyed and fell to the ground in hysterics. I lifted it out of the water and they re-composed themselves. I cast again and they silently watched it in anticipation. As soon as the wriggle began, they once more clutched their sides in hysterical laughter. The next lure- a “fizzer” (floating lure with a propeller at the front and rear) had a similar reaction, but they found it a little funnier for some reason. We tried several other lures and gave a small green bibbed lure to Demianus- who gazed at it in wonder for several minutes before putting it away. Some further pestering to take us fishing, directed at Demianus persuaded him to send Moses and Titus over the other side of the river in the canoe to Mr Sunshine’s plantation. About half an hour later they returned with a can full of pale, fat earthworms. Demianus was clearly impressed by the lures, but insisted on fishing with the worms on a hook. He also indicated that we were going up the small creek, as the best fishing was to be had there. I asked if the water cleared up and the creek widened, as I hoped for some sight-fishing. He gave me the thumbs up. As the guide we trusted his judgement.

            Demianus boiled some water on the fire and prepared us some sweet black coffee. Rowan, by then was dozing on the top of his swag in the shelter. Demianus opened a plastic bag and asked me if I like canned fish, hunted about and extracted a white can proudly labelled “ABC,” the same brand as just about every product they seemed to have. I told him I liked canned fish, but that was the last view of the can, or its contents that I saw.

            We asked the men about the local fish. I drew some simple diagrams in a notepad Rowan had brought along. I drew the first fish we had seen, a tiny “Halfbeak” (in Australia we call them Gars.) Demianus looked at the diagram, and said “Bairo.” The fish we were really interested in was the Spot-Tailed Bass. A type of snapper, it lives in large freshwater rivers. A fighter nothing short of savage; and growing to well over a metre I have wanted to catch one for years. I drew a picture. The men discussed the image, and agreed it was called “Imoro.” Well, I hoped it was a Spot Tail; several very similar fish live in the area. Well, they knew something like it that grew big lives in this river.

            While looking at the rubber crayfish, they told me that big ones live in the river. I drew a picture of a Giant River Prawn (Macrobrachium rosenbergii) and the reply was instant: “U’rakoh.”

            Intrigued by the language of the Kamoro, we decided to write some of it down. I drew columns in the notepad, one headed by “English” the next was “Kamoro” and the last was “Indonesia.” For a while, we sat and had an unusual game of charades, trying to work out each other’s languages. We learned much from this educational bit of fun.

            Finally it was time to go fishing. Jumping into the canoe and almost tipping it several times, we motored up the tributary, the grey, overcast sky overhead almost totally obscured by rainforest. Demianus soon pulled the canoe up to the bank in a small back-eddy, the other Kamoro men holding us in place by grabbing some tufts of grass. With the engine off, I flicked the worm bait into the dark swirling water. It sank to the bottom. I clutched the rod with white knuckles ready for the inevitable bite- but ten minutes later, no sign of any fish. As I adjusted and re-adjusted the bait, the loud, high pitched trumpet-blasts of Manucodes (Manucodia sp, a type of Bird of Paradise) periodically drowned out the other bird sounds. After half an hour, we decided that maybe this spot was actually dead, so we motored further upstream, the noisy outboard blowing blue smoke that settled just above the water. The stream got no clearer; it certainly did not get wider. We bumped the odd log with the leg of the outboard, and weaved up further still. As there was no wind, any movement in the trees was very obvious. A large greenish Dendrelaphis tree snake climbed up a bush growing next to the water. I badly wanted to catch it and bring it onboard for some photos. I asked the Kamoro men if I may, not that I could have as it was too high to reach by now. You did not need to understand Kamoro, or even Indonesian to understand that their reaction to such a question was a resounding negative. Gorgeous metallic green damselflies darted about, settling briefly on twigs showing above the water, their broad, upright folded wings also showing a metallic blue-green. The Kamoro commenting: “Kopokopo” (“butterfly.”) A Brush Cuckoo made his stuttering series of rising double notes, each double alternating with a single. I imitated it, much to the delight of the Kamoro. This caused the bird to become even more worked up- my conversation with the cuckoo reached fever pitch, which made the men giggle all the more.

            Demianus steered the boat to the bank, and Nelson climbed out onto the muddy rainforest floor. He stomped through the muck to a tree that had a cluster of green golf-ball like fruits, pausing to pick a few, calling them “Omo.” He began to eat one and threw the rest into the boat for us to distribute among ourselves. Rowan took a bite into one, exclaiming “These aren’t too bad, you know. I quite like them. What did you say they were called?” The Kamoro men at once said “Omo.” I took a bite of one. It nearly broke my teeth. It tasted like a hard apple- laced with citric acid crystals. The sheer sourness of it made me involuntarily wink.

            Further on, I asked in broken Indonesian/English if you can drink from vines here. Nelson’s eyes lit up as if he had an idea. We once again pulled into the bank and Nelson leapt out with his machete, severing a long cane-like green vine, He cut it into a three metre long section and angled it to Rowan, gesturing for him to drink. Crystal clear water dribbled out of it. Nelson simply said “Rotan.” I tried some of the water. I cannot describe the taste as it had none; quite simply it was possibly the purest water I had ever had.

            Upon returning to camp, Moses and Nelson remained behind as we unloaded the fishing gear. Demianus enquired: “Makan babi anda?” Thinking of the tinned fish, I was slightly surprised at being asked if I ate pig. I answered that I sometimes eat pig. Before I could say anything else Demianus asked us to remain in the boat. We zipped over the other side to the camp of Mr Sunshine. As before, he was in his usual dark mood. We finally figured out the reason for that. His outboard obviously was playing up. A pile of banana leaves sat in the shallow water, held in place by a spear. Mr Sunshine lifted some of them away to show two pigs, a sow and a piglet pinned to the riverbed. The warm muddy river seemed to be the refrigerator- keeping the carcasses fresh…well mostly fresh. When the spear was wriggled, a trickle of blood left the body. We re-assured ourselves that it must be fresh…ish. Mr Sunshine picked up the piglet, very much dead and hog-tied with tree root rope, and heaved it into the bottom of our canoe with a thud. Meanwhile, Demianus worked on the outboard engine, taking bits off here and there, starting it and adjusting other components- all the while chattering in a mixture of Kamoro and Indonesian. I took no more than cursory notice of what he was doing.

Rowan remarked: “He should be careful not to flood the engine. I know all about that motor, we had one on the tender of Passage.”

I was more interested in a beautiful oval shaped canoe paddle that was stabbed into the mud, beyond the men working on the boat. Mr Sunshine had apparently carved it out of a single piece of wood, decorating it with a row of hexagonal patterns on the “laki-laki” (boy, or convex) side of the blade. I regretted not asking for a price on it, it certainly was a gorgeous paddle- totally practical and made to work, but also pleasing to the eye. The dogs we had seen earlier ran around the camp, there must have been at least ten of them. Some sat in the canoe and I thought it would make a fantastic series of photographs. Mr Sunshine’s small son sat and watched the strange westerner taking pictures. Each time I approached the dogs to take a photo, the attempt was met with a growl- or several growls until they sort of got used to me.

            With Mr Sunshine’s outboard fixed to a satisfactory level, we zipped back over to our camp. Almost immediately the Kamoro men got to work preparing the piglet. Knives were sharpened and the carcass was butchered. The only parts thrown out were the stomach contents. Rowan and I looked at each other and I remarked that I will eat most things, but I did not like the look of the entrails. Well, I resigned myself that if worse came to worse I have eaten literally hundreds of sausages in my lifetime. I became aware of a frog call. It made a grating, harsh creaking sound- coming from behind Moses, who was cleaning his knife. It stopped almost instantly. I turned around to walk back and it started again, stopping before I could locate it. Hours passed before I figured it out. It was the incredibly loud sound of a Kamoro grinding his teeth, a nervous habit that many Papuans, from the Kamoro in the southern lowlands to the Dani of Wamena, everyone seemed to do it. Demianus got to work rummaging around in the bags looking for herbs, spices and cooking tools. He also produced a bag of rice, cooking it in boiling water. Thankfully, he selected some diced meat from the leg of the piglet and cooked it in a wok. It was a most marvellous meal, the rice and the pork cooked with soy sauce and lemon grass. The other men helped themselves to the ribs and other parts, charring them on the coals of the fire. They chewed on the piglet’s badly burnt head, ate most of the ribs and wrapped the rest in banana leaves to eat later.

            I looked at how fast the river was falling (it had fallen by about a metre since we had arrived at camp) and asked if the men thought it would rain that night. Demianus looked at the sky and said that it would almost certainly rain. I was not worried about getting wet, as the shelter they built was more than satisfactory, but of the threat of rising river levels. Titus interrupted, simply saying in Indonesian that somebody would be on watch all night.

            I enquired of Damanius: “Jalan Jalan…(imitating walking with my fingers)…saya dan Rowan? I know it was possibly not the best way of using Indonesian to ask to go for a walk. Damanius, in his calm and unhurried voice replied in Indonesian “Tomorrow you, Rowan, Nelson and I will go for a walk to look for animals.”

            We asked more about English words and their equivalents in Bahasa Kamoro and Bahasa Indonesia, writing our findings down on Rowan’s waterproof notepad. One word that I could not get them to understand, no matter how hard I tried was “Hunter.” I really wanted to find the Kamoro and Indonesian words to describe such a person, but the conversation ended up in a lingual mess.

            As the daylight faded real frogs began to call. I asked Demianus if I may look for them. He did not really understand, as he said we would look in the morning. I insisted and he finally let Rowan and I go with Nelson.

As Rowan and I were getting the camera gear ready, Nelson called out. He had already found a frog. I shuddered as I heard the hard “clap” sound of an open palm surely squashing the life out of a poor hapless frog. He brought it over to us in his hands. I congratulated him on finding it. As his hands opened I could see it was a medium sized brown and white Rana frog- the exact species is still yet to be determined, likely to be (Rana grisea.) I took a number of photos of the creature which looked healthy enough, but soon enough its eyes dulled and it rolled over- no doubt due to mortal injuries sustained during “capture.”

We searched on, walking through the sloppy, knee-deep mud of the Papuan jungle. More frogs called among the trees. A large Rana frog crossed the track, near identical to the first one, only much larger, possibly a female. I made sure I caught this one, with a much more gentle approach. After a series of photos were taken, I let it go on its way. A small, high pitched call caught my attention. After much searching yet another species of Rana was located, calling from a fern frond near the ground. This frog was tiny, about 25-30 millimetres long. I chased it around, losing it several times before finally capturing some photos.

We returned to the campsite. Titus, Demianus and Moses were chatting around the fire. I asked Demianus if we may go looking for crocodiles, as he had indicated earlier that they are found in this river quite commonly. The jumbled Indonesian/English reply from Demianus was simply: “Jam sepuluh (ten o’clock pm…) Krokodil slip (sleep) now.” He made his point that the crocodiles sleep for the first part of the night by placing his hands together and resting his head on them.

Soon after, Demianus announced that we would hunt crocodiles now. As quick as a flash we were in the canoe ready to go.

Rowan said: “Stuff catching crocodiles for a look. I want to eat one.”

I was quite content to catch a small one by gripping its jaws, or a larger one with a rope. I had no intention of killing any. Success or not, at least it would be fun to try! The engine started with a roar and we were off. First port of call was the encampment belonging to Mr Sunshine. We beached the canoe on a rock bar that was visible for the first time with the rapidly diminishing river. Nelson and Moses searched around the temporary hut, eventually producing two spears. Each spear head was made of metal. Two points poked out of the front, sharp barbs pointing backwards ensured escape was not an option. The head itself, as Demianus demonstrated, would detach and the creature could be fought on the attached rope. We set off, hopes high and buzzing with excitement. Scanning the banks with my spotlight revealed practically no signs of life. We continued upstream for an hour or so, scanning every direction to no avail. It seemed crocodiles had possibly already been hunted to near extinction, at least in the Mimika region. At the turn-around point, two white figures appeared on a branch in the distance. As we moved closer, I noticed they were two white birds, each the size of a tennisball. They sported lovely white bellies and a grey/black head, wings and back. The wings were pointed and a white spot divided the eyes from the base of the bill. Titus, as quick as a flash shot his hand out, grabbing them off the branch in one go. They screeched in protest, clawing and biting. Titus smiled at them. I asked what the men would do with the birds, Demianus replied in broken English: “Pet, for my baby.” Demianus opened a thick, clear plastic bag and dumped them in it. I protested, but the men did would not release them. These were obviously a prize. I insisted at least on putting air holes in the bag. I opened my knife, poking holes in the violently convulsing bag.

Eventually we arrived back at camp- with absolutely no crocodiles. Almost immediately Rowan slinked into his swag and zipped it up. As I slipped into my sleeping bag on the bare planks of the shelter, Demianus pointed at my right leg. I had a look and noticed blood had been dribbling on my leg for some time. A fat leech was the source of the commotion, and was promptly dealt with. I applied some insecticide in vain- there were few, if any mosquitoes out that night. I dozed off in complete comfort.

My snooze was interrupted at about two o’clock am by a somewhat excited Titus, who sat next to the fireplace, pinching my toes through the sleeping bag. I ignored it for a moment, but he insisted that I see this wonder that he had fished from the river bare handed. Rubbing tired eyes, I sat up and saw he had a massive Giant River Prawn, known in Australia as a Cherabin (Macrobrachium ronsenbergii.) Looking similar to a skinny crayfish, this crustacean had long thin blue claws longer than its light brown body which was the best part of a foot long. I tried to wake Rowan, who rolled over and groaned. Titus gestured toward Rowan’s swag with a limp hand, saying we should leave him alone and enjoy the prawn ourselves. After a few photos, Titus tossed the now dead prawn on the fire. The claws cooked first, becoming soft and flexible. He first gave the largest one to me. I thanked him, breaking it apart and squeezing the meat out- toothpaste style. It was deliciously sweet. By the time we had finished the claws, the rest had cooked. Titus picked the body from the coals. The body meat was even more spectacular. The orange and white meat was plentiful and had a gorgeous flavour – like the best saltwater prawn. I thanked Titus once more for his generosity, and went back to bed.

* * * *

Only a couple of hours later at first light we were awoken by the men- ready for more adventure. Demianus had a coffee ready for Rowan and myself. I drank mine while Rowan slept in. Rigging my baitcaster I noticed the river had fallen two metres since we arrived. Fish swirled periodically on the surface. The mullet-imitating lure hit the water. The Kamoro men looked at me, almost with pity. They were convinced I was wasting my time- worms were the only bait to use. On the fifth cast, the lure wriggled down out of sight and the line pulled tight. I called out to the men, who looked on in shock. Triumphant, I reeled in a fish that fought deep and flashed silver. As it surfaced, I looked in surprise at it- a catfish. Normally despised back in Australia, the Kamoro hooted in excitement, “Ewako” they called out. This was not a species I had caught in Australia, possibly the Triangular Shield Catfish (Arius letapsis.) The vertical silver stripes over the silver body and exceptionally long thin spines on the leading edge of the dorsal and pectoral fins looked unlike any fork-tailed catfish I had caught. I gave the men an “I-told-you-so” look as they excitedly tried to remove it from the hook. Titus was concerned about me- pointing out the long, sharp serrated spines, as I had commandeered the hook-removing task bare-handed. Once the hooks were removed, the fish was quickly wrapped in banana leaves and placed next to the charred pig meat and the birds in the bag which were still alive and seemed healthy. I asked what the Indonesian word for this fish was. “Ikan sembilang” was the reply.

            Next, Demianus and Nelson kept their word and led us through the jungle, hacking a path with a machete. Nelson led the way, slipping his way through the rainforest and Sago palms with extreme ease. Rowan and I stayed behind the men as we slopped through the deep sticky mud and wet leaf litter of the forest floor. Little springs appeared on the ground, flowed for a few metres and vanished once more into tennis-ball sized holes in the soil.

            We crashed through a small muddy creek, and upon climbing up the opposite bank, happened across a footprint in the mud. This was the unmistakable print of a Southern Cassowary, a large black flightless bird with a red neck wattle and a blue head topped with a hard axe-blade like casque. It is renowned for its bad temper and habits of shredding open the abdomens of human attackers with a hideously oversized toenail. Naturally, we wanted to find one. Normally these birds feed on fruits found on the forest floor, but in bad times will raid orchards and plantations. The double-shafted black feathers of these birds are used by Papuans as decorations for their headdresses. The track was very fresh, maybe laid down only minutes before we found it.

            Nelson called us over. He pointed to the ground at what looked like a pile of animal dung at the base of a tall, ginger plant. Plucking one of the brown, turd-like, gobstopper-sized objects from the heap, he broke it open to reveal a red fruit, filled with a mass of black seeds within a white crystalline pulp. Clearly this was the fruit of this particular ginger. Rowan enquired in Kamoro: “Ana?” (You eat this?) Nelson ate some, gesturing for us to do the same, calling it by the Kamoro name: “Da’uti.” The ginger flavour was definitely there, as was a hint of sour citrus and maybe a tiny bit of pepper. This was a strange combination of tastes no doubt. Personally I didn’t think much of it, but soon another fruit caught the eye of the Kamoro. It looked to be a species of lily, growing in the moist soaks of the forest floor. The crinkled spear-head like leaves grew upright and the plant bore a cluster of white fruits in the centre, each about the size of a large grape. Nelson removed one from the plant and ate it. We did the same. Of all the fruits we found, this was by far the best. The texture was soft and smooth. Initially the flavour was like a ripe watermelon, but after twenty seconds or so an overwhelming rush of butterscotch took over. Nelson pointed at it and said: “Kowaiki.” For the rest of the walk, Rowan and I raced each other for these little delicacies.

            We had seen many banana trees growing along the river in plantations, but we were now well away from these, yet we saw a number of banana plants. To my understanding, the banana we and the Papuans know as food has been subject to so much artificial selection that they cannot reproduce without human farming methods. These ones grew through the forest. Nelson paused for a moment to show us a large specimen growing nearby. He called it “Pisang hutan” – literally “Banana of the forest.” I was familiar with wild bananas in the Wet Tropics of Australia, only the Papuan ones are much bigger. They are just like the cultivated varieties, only the fruits are smaller and full of black seeds. These wild forest bananas are undoubtedly the ancestors of today’s farmed varieties.

            The forest was surprisingly devoid of flowers. We stopped for a moment to pluck leeches from our legs. As I looked around I noticed a tree covered in masses of flowers that had to be of the brightest shade of red I had ever seen. I asked if we may go and look at it. Nelson finished directing a golden arc at some leaves on the ground and led us to the tree. Not actually a tree but a vine covering the tree, its red pea-like flowers were littering the forest floor. We did not know what the vine was at the time, although I had already heard about it from Jo:

            “There is this tree called the Flame of Papua, there is one that flowers about this time of year at Kuala Kencana golf course. You’ll see it a mile off. It’s like a Bouganvillea, the red flowers cascade down the plant. It’s just gorgeous.”

After snapping off a load of photos, we continued along the path. Demianus soon signalled us to turn back. We stopped off for a quick drink from the water bottles we had carried in. When the Kamoro men finished theirs, we were horrified that they just threw them into the forest. As we walked, I discussed this topic with Rowan.

            “They are not used to plastic packaging…” Rowan began… “All of their rubbish in the past was packaging made from leaves and wood. It all rots away back into the soil. Plastic is very new to them, they don’t have any idea on how long it takes to rot away.”

I added: “Well, also there is the fact that it lies on the forest floor and every time it rains, it gets flushed away never to be seen again, at least by the Kamoro. It ends up somewhere else, but they don’t know that. To them it just vanishes.”

            We crossed a mud wallow on a small log. Above us was another vine, this one had massive oval shaped leaves. At the end of a branch was a clump of pink flowers. Demianus asked Nelson to get them for us. He searched around the forest floor, producing a tree root, which he used to bind his knife to a stick so that the blade pointed down on a forty five degree angle. He hooked it over the flowers and pulled downwards, cutting them free. I photographed them before thanking the men.

            Throughout the walk, Nelson in particular would stop dead still and lean forward, his eyes wide open and fixated on something, usually a lizard, in the leaf litter. He would rock forward and clap an open hand on the ground, occasionally succeeding in capturing a lizard, curling his fingers around the poor, wriggling creature. Sometimes his hand came down with mighty thump, and I am glad in such cases that the lizard escaped.

            Nelson called out. He had found a track, a Kangaru track in the mud, no less. Looking at it, I knew immediately it belonged to a Tree kangaroo (Dendrolagus sp,) the species unknown. Obviously it had come to the ground to hop along before climbing up another tree. The track was also very fresh.

            As we made our way back to camp, some movement caught my eye. A thrush-sized, vivid black and yellow bird hopped down towards the ground from branch to branch. I could not make out the whole bird, so I started walking towards it. In an effort to help me, Nelson surged forward into the bush in the direction I was headed. I abandoned all hope of photographing this bird, instead rushing into a tangle of vines, not catching another glimpse. Just before getting back to camp, a loud screaming trill erupted in a large tree above our heads. I looked up, straining to see the bird that made all that noise. I knew what it was, but could not see it. Not surprisingly, Nelson’s ever wide-open eyes caught the first sighing of it. Eventually I saw it, the first actual sighting I had made of a Rufous-Bellied Kookaburra. Slightly smaller than the familiar Australian Laughing Kookaburra, it had bright blue wings, a reddish belly, black head with a white collar and massive white eyebrows and a heavy, bone coloured bill. Another flew in, chattered with it on the branch before they chased another intruder away.

            We arrived back in camp to find Moses and Titus had packed most of it away. Obviously enjoying a break, they sat on the raised floor of the shelter quite content. I photographed the skinks that had been caught; I am surprised that they survived at all considering Nelson’s method of capture. As the campsite was dismantled, Demianus struggled to undo the tree-root ropes. I handed him my most prized knife, (complete with a locking blade and camouflage colours) so he could cut the ropes. Obviously he thought it was a gift. The smile on his face was priceless. I did not ask for the knife back, as I would have felt guilty, besides, I could always get another and he would see far more use from it than I would. Also, he would remember us by the knife. It was worth losing it, he wore it about as if it was the best thing he had ever been given.

            Once the valuable items from the camp had been bundled into the canoe, including the birds, fish and the charred remains of last night’s pig we headed off. However, Titus would not let go of the tree roots on the water’s edge until we had thanked the campsite, in Bahasa Kamoro, of course. We sped over to the other side of the river- which by now was a mere trickle compared to the day before, ending up at Mr Sunshine’s camp. The spears were returned to their resting place in the “attic” of the structure. Afterwards, we swam in the river, fully clothed. I figured that I and my clothes needed a wash, so I cleaned both simultaneously.

            Driving downriver was much faster than heading upstream, obviously due to the fast current. We dodged and glanced off logs, disturbing kingfishers, hornbills and a myriad of other birds on the way. We all waved at other canoes heading upriver with their cargoes of Kamoro, crops and farm animals. As we turned at the junction to head up the Iwaka River to the village, I waved at some people living in their wood-and-tarpaulin structure, cast nets strung up on the side and small children playing in the water. Looking up over the house I saw another bird of paradise, a Riflebird- the exact species I know not. It flew on its rounded wings over the tree tops and out of sight. I am familiar with Riflebirds back in Australia, we have three species and this one looked most like the Magnificent Riflebird, in Australia found in Cape York- where I had seen them in dense mangroves around Weipa.

            Eventually we found ourselves putting up a small tributary and into the village itself. Without many words, we unloaded the canoe, putting all the baggage on a pile of timber. Rowan and I sat in the shade, the heat and humidity clinging to our clothes. The men were oddly straight-faced at the time. It was as if we had insulted them somehow, thankfully this was not the case, something else must have been catching their attention, and possibly the fact that Demianus was having trouble with the mobile phone he had been given to contact Jeffery for a lift back. Meanwhile, Titus sat down with a broad smile, inviting us to sit with him. In Indonesian, which I had no real grasp of at the time he spoke to us. The language barrier was frustrating to say the least, but we feel we understood what he was saying, well we hoped so, as he had to repeat himself many times! Titus told us that he was a grandfather, with a number of grandchildren. Several he introduced to us, but their names we could not remember.

            Jeffery’s car swerved around the corner and pulled up in front of us, three fluffy souvenir koalas swinging about from the inside of the windscreen. After many photos, we said our farewells to our Kamoro “family” then rattled and bumped our way back up the road to Timika. Demianus was with us, catching a lift back to his house. We arrived there after half an hour or so. It was made out of planks and stood next to a bridge spanning a small river. A satellite dish pointed skywards while washing hung from various lines strung between the house and nearby trees. The side rails of the bridge were also covered in drying clothes. The roof of the house was constructed mostly of palm leaves, patched in places by blue tarpaulins. Our arrival drew a crowd. Kids flocked out to see us. Demianus called an older man out. Like many older men, he was built almost entirely of muscle it seemed. He was carrying a crude cage bent out of aviary mesh. Within it was a striped possum or Triok (Dactylopsila trivirgata.) He called it “Kuskus,” as is the standard in New Guinea for any possum-like creature. Such a cute, gentle looking creature with big, glassy brown eyes and long brown and white stripes, we did feel kind of sorry for it, not that its looks should influence that. He tapped the side of the cage and the possum reacted, screeching. We took some photos of it as both Rowan and I independently debated buying it for release. We decided against it, as some Papuans have found out that there is a business for possum catch-and-release… It is custom in many areas, however to tip those that you photograph. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but searched and found I only had notes at ten thousand rupiah and above. Five thousand is the normal rate, about eighty Australian cents at the time of writing. I gave him a ten thousand rupiah note, which he refused at first, but was very grateful when I insisted. I just hope that he doesn’t get the idea to form some sort of dodgy zoo for passers-by to view. Then again, it seems almost nobody with white skin travels that road anyway.

            We said goodbye to Demianus and thanked him very much. Kuala Kencana was our next stop. I noticed once more the gorgeous pink Spathoglottis orchids on the roadside. I asked Jeffrey to stop, and I got out and photographed them. He knew I liked photographing things, so he stopped the car further up the road and pointed out another Flame of Papua vine, its flowers spilling out over the road. I thanked him and leapt out and took some photos. Even in the dull light each flower shone bright. The muddy streams we crossed on the way to see the Kamoro were now gin clear, but still full of rubbish. Eventually we reached the guard post at Kuala Kencana. Security demanded to see our identification, before letting us through. Local members of the military sat back, puffing on cigarettes in their mouths, half leaning on their guns- probably half asleep too. Looking down at us were Kamoro carvings of the typical human type. Like the examples at the Sheraton which were also carved out of single logs, these were hollow and wonderfully carved. A couple of them had real-life Indonesians curled up inside them, obviously finding them a great place to rest and watch the world go by. About five minutes later we reached Kuala Kencana…

To be continued...

The Crew (from left...)

Author, Nelson, Titus, Moses, Rowan, Demianus

Special thanks to my sponsors from Freeport Mining Indonesia - the Howlands, Jo Richardson and Kal Muller for organising the trip.